


there's a devil crawling along your floor

by ennaih (aquandrian)



Series: Death Trooper AU [6]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Consensual Violence, Death Trooper AU, F/M, Fic Exchange, Glove Kink, Humiliation kink, Mention Of Genocide, domme!Jyn, sub!Krennic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-23 23:53:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7484847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquandrian/pseuds/ennaih
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a private room in the Director's living quarters. Only two people know what happens there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's a devil crawling along your floor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onstraysod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/gifts).



> So there’s this [indescribably wonderful Gothic AU onstraysod is writing](https://onstraysod.tumblr.com/tagged/Gothic-AU), and [the latest vignette](https://onstraysod.tumblr.com/post/146947115270/a-birthday-present-for-winterofherdiscontent) pretty much made the top of my head fly off with hawtness, and I said to her that because of this one paragraph she had written, I could not shake a certain image. And she said she felt the same way and so here we are, doing a fic exchange, the only criterion being that image. See if you can spot it.
> 
> Title (and a sneaky line mid-fic) from _Loverman_ by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.

The Director of the Imperial Army has no vices. Spies and intelligence officers of various levels of security and legitimacy have tried to acquire such information, bribing servants in his various on-planet residences, listening in on gossip between senators and commanders, combing through school records and military academy information banks. Some even managed to get a couple of listening devices and tiny hidden cameras into his onboard living quarters. These were always discovered within six or eight hours, and what data obtained was remarkable only in how immensely boring the Director was in his private life. He would return to his quarters, shower, and go over reports for half the night under the watch of an everpresent Death Trooper before retiring to bed. 

Only two people know of the private room. On the ship’s plans, it’s marked as a walk-in closet, perfectly unremarkable because no one but the Director and his personal Death Trooper have access. The hospitality droids who clean and maintain the living quarters don’t count, and anyway no one would think to ask them.

Jyn Erso knows. It was her idea, after all. Of course he was the one to source all the material and arrange it to his own aesthetic of sumptuous Old Republic hedonism, all shades of red from old blood to ripe fruit she’s never tasted. But she was the one to suggest that the walk-in closet be converted to this purpose.

Once a week they are unavailable for any official Imperial activity. Once a week they vanish from sight. Sometimes it’s two hours, sometimes it’s half a standard day, sometimes it’s a whole twenty-four hours.

This is what happens: Jyn Erso sheds her Death Trooper armour and enters the red room to slide the door shut behind her. The light is soft and reddish, gleaming the pale bowed form of the Director on his knees. He’s not the Director here -- sometimes he’s Orson. Most times he has no name but “Mine.” Mine murmured into the fine freckled skin across his back. Mine against the sculpted shape of his cheekbone. Mine into the bite marks on the inside of his thighs.

Here the scent is heavy and intoxicating, like old rich fabric steeped in decadence. It’s the scent of his surrender, and it thrills her like nothing else. She gets her hand into his silvered hair, pulls so his face tips up to the blooded light. His eyes are dark blue in here, sometimes pupil-blown on some hallucinogenic substance but more often than not wide and dazed with so much physical sensation. She holds his face and asks him what he wants but he never can tell her. So she does what she wants to him, and really that’s the whole point.

The subjugation of this man, breaking himself on the sharp hard edges of her will. She ties him with rope, red cutting into the pale mottled contours of his twisting body. Tells him to touch himself and he does, his straining sex in his jumping paw, his eyes hot and pleading on her. She lets him look at the dark red secret of her sex but doesn’t undo the ropes, doesn’t let him do anything but reach his neck up and offer his mute mouth. Sometimes she doesn’t accept, just to see him suffer worse, to see the flush of red across his chest and face. But there are times when she lets him lick her cunt, not because he’s good at it -- he is -- but because the simple fact is she wants it. 

The worship, the complete adoration of her most female flesh, the sounds he makes as he buries his face in her private hair. She’ll pull his head back just to see his face smeared with her wetness, the way his crooked vulnerable mouth glistens, and the absurdly pale lashes tangling as he struggles to open his eyes. She blocks out the light over him, a dark terrible female power over his abject desire. He looks up from between her bare thighs, and feeling sweeps through her, so much love mixed in with the power he gives her over him, the moments he entrusts to her care. 

Moments of seeing him like this, exposed and trembling with need. Moments when she reaches down with a black gloved hand and takes hold of his chin, her slick leather thumb pulling his yearning mouth open wider. He looks up at her like she’s the most glorious goddess he’s never dared to dream of, like all he wants is to disappear into her. Sometimes it’s like he does, like all his ambition and scheming willpower dissolve into her firm grasp. 

This is the man who strides across the scorched surfaces of conquered planets, his extravagant white cape flaring on the burnt breeze. Who meets warlords and diplomats and royalty and cuts them down with eyes like steel. From whose thin mouth comes nothing until it’s a command to raze worlds. This man waits, bound with red rope and shaking a little under his pale beautiful skin, until she says the word. “Come.” And then he gasps and starts to crawl across the lush red carpet, his spine a lovely gleaming curve cut with red. 

“Come to me,” she says softly, reaching out her black gloved hand. This is her favourite part, her most cherished visual. The way his naked limbs look against all the crimson textures of their secret room, the way he presses down against the carpet, his belly, his cock dragging, the tender breakable contour of his neck exposed below the ruffled hair. How he keeps his head down for nearly all that crawl, so much grateful shame in the cast of his shoulders, and only when she touches his hair with the barest skim of leather does he lift his face. Every time, every time it makes her breath catch in her throat -- he looks so utterly innocent and so utterly depraved, her own grateful catamite with his wet eyes and wet lips. 

“Here,” she says and gives him her gloved hand to mouth. He watches her face as he does it, with gleeful greedy eyes, his submission turning manipulative, and so she backhands him neatly across the cheek. His neck cracks with the impact, a lovely sound, and his mouth is sluttish slackly open as he recovers and peers from under his lashes at her. All supplication and secret joy now, the red mark flowering like pride across his bold cheekbone.

Sometimes it’s not a hand across his face. Sometimes, when he’s earned it, when he’s insolent on the floor of this locked space, she places her stiletto bootheel on his face. And slowly, as he shudders and yields, his cock erect and arching away from his abdomen, slowly she presses the sharp point down. Sometimes it breaks the skin across his cheek. Sometimes it’s an invisible mark only the two of them know exist.

She straps him to their special rack, his body arched and displayed for her, rubbed raw against the ropes. It’s an image she loves so much that frequently she’ll take him like this, restrained in place so she can fuck herself on his cock, using him until he comes and comes in her, arching and groaning, so very fucked apart by her. 

But equally, she doesn’t. Splayed open, she fucks him with penetrating things, things that vibrate, that drag cries and spunk from his body no longer under his control. She doesn’t let him recover, dials up the charge so his cock stiffens despite himself, stiffens and comes, again and again, until he’s raw and red and dripping in her slick leather hand. “Mine,” she says against his hot breathless face, against his pleading mouth. “Who do you belong to?”

He doesn’t answer, too helpless, too far gone. So she strikes him gently across the other cheekbone, so the dark blue eyes startle open, and the red mouth gasps. 

“Who do you belong to, Orson?” she says, her voice low. 

The Director of the Imperial Army is a genocidal maniac in an immaculate uniform. He has ordered the deaths of families, of villages and cities, of so many human tribes and alien species. Children have never grown up into adults because of him, lovers have never met and kissed because of him, whole swathes of land have never greened and flowered because of him. He is a scourge across the universe, an evil in white.

“You,” he moans, leaning into her hand.

This is not a vice and not a weakness. Neither is it penance, no atonement so vast and no benediction so absolute. He knows what he is, and so does she. 

“I’m yours, oh god, yours.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yeaaahhhhh. [A transcript as it happened](http://directororsonwelleskrennic.tumblr.com/post/147342103307/me-writes-deviant-fic-me-aiight-ill-skip):
> 
> me: *writes deviant fic*  
> me: aiight i'll skip through that Mendo film I got today for any good bits. i'll watch it on the weekend  
> Mendo: *puts his boot on the nice boy's face*  
> me: oh. OH. FUCK. oh I'M GUNNA HURT YOu  
> me: *adds bit to deviant fic*  
> me: i feel better now. #blameMendo
> 
> This is how we ship.
> 
> And this is onstraysod's utterly delicious fic [Come To Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7491198).


End file.
